


Neither Wrong Nor Right

by Gleaming_Spires (cuppaktea)



Category: History Boys (2006), History Boys - All Media Types, History Boys - Bennett
Genre: I think this fits the label of pre-slash, M/M, Oxford, Post canon, these two man, they're just too cute, uni fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:27:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23118490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuppaktea/pseuds/Gleaming_Spires
Summary: Have a weird thing what I done what is short on dialogue because I am in a weird mood.I need the validation like Posner needs to be on meds, so y'know, feel free to drop me some love below Xx
Relationships: David Posner/Donald Scripps
Comments: 8
Kudos: 12





	Neither Wrong Nor Right

**Author's Note:**

> Have a weird thing what I done what is short on dialogue because I am in a weird mood. 
> 
> I need the validation like Posner needs to be on meds, so y'know, feel free to drop me some love below Xx

Posner’s room in first year is on the second floor up, the mullioned windows providing a pleasant view out over the quad below and from the seat at his desk he can see people bustling about down on the ground - his own age mostly but a few professors too, all looking the part of students and people who have made it – whatever that means.

Nobody down there looks as though they have any questions about whether they belong. Unlike him.

It’s rarely quiet. Busts of chatter drift up to him, laughter sometimes too. It’s not at his expense of course, although it cuts as though it were. Because he doesn’t belong and he knows it, and he suspects they know it too – or that they would if they were to stop and talk to him.

His sexuality isn’t an issue here, which is both surprise and relief, and him being Jewish seems to lend him an air of unexpected mystery. His voice, his clothes and his hair, however, they’re a different story. Nobody is crass enough to say anything outright (except that one bloke down the pub who called him ‘Mellors’ but he was pissed and Posner thinks it was supposed to be a compliment – all the same, it embarrassed him dreadfully), he catches the looks though. Not from anyone that matters, but there are plenty of them.

He’s trying to change, to adapt, to conform, but half of him rebels at the idea of fitting in for the benefit of these stuck up snobs and the other half can’t find the time or the energy to go about it.

Rather to Posner's surprise, Rudge is the only one of them who has fitted in seamlessly here, and as a consequence, he never meets with him anymore. 

Dakin, he notices on those rare occasions he sees him, has perfected the art of not fitting in – playing it either up or down for effect.

Scripps has changed too, although not so deliberately. He’s simply been worn smooth like a pebble on the beach, being changed without actually changing what he is.

Akthar has the advantage of not giving a fuck, which just leaves Pos the piggy in the middle: Sticking out like a sore thumb but without enjoying the attention it brings.

All this is by the by, however, and he has work to do. Absently, he twirls his leaky biro in his hand and tries to force his brain into some form of coherency on the topic of Acts of Attainder.

A furious pounding on the wood of his door makes him jump and he drops it into his lap, splattering black ink down the white of his t-shirt.

Swearing, he daps at it with water from a dirty glass on the desk.

The vigorous knocking comes again.

“Pos? I know you’re in there I can hear you”

The sound of Scripps’ voice galvanises him into action.

“Scrippsy, hi” He belatedly realises he hasn’t even looked in a mirror for a couple of days and runs a hand self-consciously over his unshaven face.

“You’ve got - ” Scripps rubs a thumb over his own bottom lip and Posner copies the action, his thumb coming away black with viscous ink.

“Can I come in?”

He steps aside, glancing guiltily about the kip of his room: the dirty socks strewn over the floor, books piled on the unmade bed, the desk and floor littered with papers and food wrappers. It’s too late to do anything about it, and he hurriedly clears a chair, which Scripps takes without comment.

“I was hoping to catch you after your tutorial, you weren’t there”

“I forgot” Posner whispers, which is a half-lie at best. “What was it you wanted?”

“I wondered if you wanted to go to the pub for lunch, my grant came through”

Posner smiles. “I’ve got too much to do, I’m afraid”

“Fair enough. You mind if I stay for a while?”

He pulls out a book and a notepad by way of explanation and Posner can’t turn him away.

Sitting back in the desk chair he pretends to work for an hour or so. The miles of blank page in front of him is frustrating and he longs to throw his pen down and go back to bed, but Scripps’ presence rules that out as a plan of action, so he forces his mind back onto the task. He hasn’t managed much by the end of the day, but at least it’s better than nothing.

Scripps calls a halt to his efforts and forces him into the shower at five-thirty before marching him down to the hall for an early dinner.

It’s oddly sweet, he thinks, as he sits, well-fed in clean pyjamas, back at his desk that evening.

The next day Scripps is back. He doesn’t ask about the pub this time but makes himself comfortable with his book as soon as he steps inside.

The pattern is repeated the next day, and the day after, and the one after that. Posner asks for no explanation and Scripps offers none. It doesn’t improve his work or his concentration, but it does improve his productivity and gives him something to get dressed for.

“Pos” Scripps says simply at some point during the second week. It’s the first unnecessary word he’s uttered in days.

Posner turns to meet those honest hazel eyes. He nods, careful not to break whatever spell this is and Scripps rises out of his seat, and slowly walks the three short steps over to the desk. Keeping his page, he lays his open book down on top of the others there and slides a hand into Posner’s hair, fingertips gently scratching his scalp.

Letting out the breath he didn’t even realise he was holding, Posner leans back, enjoying the impromptu massage from his new position against Scripps’s hip.

Outside the window, students and professors, successful people each of them, bustle about and meet and laugh and drop their books and kiss each other. He tips his head back and closes his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the poem 'Acquainted with the Night' by Robert Frost, which I think suits Posner down to the ground.
> 
> I have been one acquainted with the night.  
> I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.  
> I have outwalked the furthest city light.
> 
> I have looked down the saddest city lane.  
> I have passed by the watchman on his beat  
> And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.
> 
> I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet  
> When far away an interrupted cry  
> Came over houses from another street,
> 
> But not to call me back or say good-bye;  
> And further still at an unearthly height,  
> One luminary clock against the sky
> 
> Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.  
> I have been one acquainted with the night.


End file.
